Definition of a Princess
by Seinden
Summary: Before she married her Pureblood prince, Narcissa was already royalty. And contrary to popular opinion, being his wife was the hardest choice she ever made.
1. Ash

A/N: I had this idea when I wrote the line "princes marry princesses, the rest of us marry each other" in _Rewind_. Let us foray into the mind of a young Narcissa Malfoy.

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><p><strong>Definition <strong>**of**** Princess**

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"Cissy!"

The curtains open with a screech.

"No..."

I turn my face away from the burning morning light. It isn't nice to wake people up early on the weekends, but Bella has never been particularly nice. She nearly broke Andromeda's nose not a months ago when my second sister brought that filthy muggle boy into our noble house. I would have too, if I were less of a lady.

"Get up, Cissy!" she hisses at me.

I bury myself under the sheet.

"Go away. It's too early," I mutter back.

Bella jumps into the bed and shakes me roughly. I can almost see the smirk on her face as she says, "That man is coming! Father wants you to be up and dressed in an hour. He's even picked out a gown for you."

"Me?"

I throw back the covers suddenly. Bella is holding a blue gown. _The_ blue gown, our mother's gown. She bounces off the bed and twirls with the dress, holding the skirt open to display the jewels sewn into it. The sun's rays gleam off the precious stones and silvery blue silk. Bella's long black hair falls over the dress bodice as she holds it up to her face. She won't say anything, but I can tell she wishes the dress were for her. She would be beautiful in it. I feel proud that father has chosen it for me. He always tells me that, of his daughters, I am the only one who resembles mother the most; I am his favorite.

"Now get up! We don't want you to be late!"

My sister throws the gown down on the bed and pulls me up by the hand. She drags me across the floor and out of my bedroom. I go with her willingly, but I can't stop staring at the blue dress. It had been mother's favorite, the one she wore to greet important wizards. Andromeda and Bellatrix were each given something of hers, but he has saved her most precious dress for me. I feel pleased that father has finally decided I've grown up enough to wear it.

I could barely keep up with Bella's pace as she runs down the stairs. She giggles madly when I almost fall on the last step. Stamping her feet on the ground, she pushes me into the bath chamber and shuts the door behind her loudly. Sometimes I really hate her.

The water is scalding hot when I take off my nightgown and step into it. I must remember to tell father that the new house-elf he purchased still needed a few pointers.

Once I finish my bath and dress myself in my slip, I go back upstairs to my room. Bella is already waiting for me. She is sitting at my vanity, flicking her wand. I frown at her and yell for her leave my things alone.

"Don't be that way, Cissy," she protests as she waves her wand to dry my hair. Ever since her graduation, she's been flaunting her wandwork at every occasion. I'm sure she does it just to annoy me since she knows I'm not allowed to use magic over the summer yet. My hair falls down from it's knot to my shoulders and Bella presses down on them, signalling me to sit in front of the vanity.

"Shall I put the dress on before or after you braid my hair?" I ask.

She taps her chin thoughtfully and glances at it through heavy-lidded eyes.

"After, we wouldn't want to wrinkle it," she finally replies.

Using her wand, she parts my hair just above my left brow. Then she puts the crooked ebony wand aside on the stand and places her fingers on my scalp. My hair is my pride and joy. I don't have to have expensive things, but I must have my hair. Unlike the rest of my family, it is the color of autumn flax, just like mother. My sisters inherited her beautiful grey eyes, but I have her hair. Gently placing her hands under my chin, Bella tilts my head back. I look up at her, and she smiles down at me.

"Don't pull too tight," I say just as she separates the first locks.

She smirks playfully and yanks on some strands.

"Ouch!" My hand flies up to slap her away.

"Just for laughs, Cissy, don't scowl. It's unbecoming."

I make a face at her but let her continue braiding my hair. She tucks the straight locks one under another, beginning at the crown. I remember Andromeda teaching me to braid when I was a little girl. Unlike Bella, she was very kind when I misplaced a lock. Andie's hands were much nimbler than mine; her braids always turned out far prettier. As a girl, I'd always thought she was very talented and beautiful. I shouldn't think of Andie now. She's not our sister anymore, not since she turned out to be a traitor. If mother were alive, she'd probably have died from embarrassment.

"Do you know who is coming?"

Bella tugs too hard on my hair and I cringe. She only rolls her eyes at me.

"I heard that it's a gentleman from a very old family."

"Why has father called me to join him?"

"Perhaps he needs your charm in a business matter," she answers curtly. I know she is lying. There's a cruel glint in her eye.

I stare at her in the mirror and stiffen my back. "Why doesn't he ask you then? You're much older."

My sister looks down at me with lashy eyes and twists her lips. She pins one of the braids down and continues on the second half. I know she is hiding something.

"Bella, just tell me!"

"Well, you know how charming he finds me," she says with a sneer.

This was true. Father did not care much for Bella, said she took after shrilly Aunt Walburga. I always liked my aunt despite her not being very beautiful though; ever since I was very young, she'd give me jewelry whenever we visited. Her last gift was a stunning emerald pendant in the shape of a teardrop. Aunt Walburga told me in confidence that she'd been disappointed at only having sons. My father most likely would have said the opposite. But I must agree with her. Having known Sirius, I'd be disappointed too if I were his mother.

"Do you think this man will be handsome?" I ask.

"I should think so, baby sister," Bella remarks. "He's rich."

She has it so easy, being with Rodolphus. Father approves of him. There's a boy I see at school, but I dare not speak to him, or tell anyone of my heart. He's a Ravenclaw, you see, and father would never look at me again if I was to bring him home. I have it on good authority that he has no money. It shouldn't matter, because we have enough money, but I suppose it's only right that one should add to their wealth instead of diminishing it.

Bella pins the second braid into place and begins to pull the rest of my hair into a chignon. She uses her wand to tack the hair with little pins. When she is done, she reaches for a clip. I stop her and give her a comb instead. The comb was my mother's as well and is adorned with tiny everlasting jasmine flowers.

"Now let's put some rouge on you so you don't look thirteen." She bends down to look through my drawers.

"But I _am_ thirteen," I interject.

I dig out a vial of red powder and hand it to her. She sweeps it onto the apples of my cheeks and makes a fish face, wanting me to imitate her. I suck my cheeks in, and she dabs the red in the hollows as well.

"Move aside," she mutters.

I slide down on my bench and she lowers herself beside me. Bella moves to pick up a brush and ink to line my eyes. In this moment, I wished that Andie was still our sister. She'd be able to do a much better job. Bella always wears too much make up.

"Close your eyes," she commands.

I feel the cool touch of the ink as it is being drawn on my lash line. It feels like crying inside out.

"Now look up."

I turn my eyes up but protest, "I don't want any on the bottom."

"Well, you're getting some. Now shut up, you'll make me ruin it."

After what seems like an eternity, she finishes poking the little brush at my eyes. Next, she glides a bright red lipstick over my lips. I press my lips together obediently and she blots the shine out of them.

"Looking almost fifteen, if I may say so. Now let's get your dress on."

I look in the mirror and feel relieved that I don't look gloomy or cheap. I don't say it aloud, but it happens quite frequently to her. The lipstick is far more red than I'd have chosen. It does not look garish so I hold my tongue.

Tentatively, I walk over to the outstretched gown and step into it as Bella holds the shoulders. She pulls the neck closed and has me hold it while she buttons the endless placket on my back. The gown feels heavy and hangs on me. The neck is too open and shows the straps of my slip clearly.

"It's too big," I say.

Bella takes her wand to swishes it at the waist. The gown instantly shrinks around me and wraps itself to me tightly. Although less heavy, it still feels uncomfortable. Her charm is not perfect, and the dress pinches me painfully at places. Mother was a bit taller than I am now.

"Can you let it out a bit? I'll wear a belt."

She shakes her head with an insulted look. "That won't do. Father says he wants every flower in the vase, but no more."

I slouch and wince as the hooks poke at my back through the fabric.

"But it hurts!" I whine.

"You look presentable," she returns and pulls me in front of the mirror.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I do not look myself. A slim girl masquerading as a woman with cold blue eyes stares back at me. She didn't look particularly happy. I wonder if mother would be proud to see me look like this in her dress. With shaky hands, I put on my best shoes.

Bella looks up at the clock and promptly ushers me out of the room. It is nine exactly in the morning. The dress drags behind me as I walk. She leaves me at the staircase and motions for me to descend by myself. I look up at her, terrified. My sister tosses her long black hair over her shoulder and smirks as if she were secretly laughing at a great joke.

I clutch at the banister as I take steps down toward the parlor. The paintings all smile at me kindly as I pass them. My heart pounds nervously for I don't know anything about father's business. What if I behave badly?

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I breathe a long sigh before walking toward the parlor. My shoes clack loudly on the wooden floor as I step. Once I reach the parlor, I stop at the doorway and wait for father. He turns around and beckons me with his big, square hands.

"This is my daughter, Narcissa," he announces as I walk over to stand behind his armchair. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek when I reach him.

Across from him, sitting in the opposite chair is a young man with sharp, angular features. He has light brown hair, which is perfectly parted across his large forehead. I don't much care for his olive complexion, but the darkness of his skin makes his grey eyes stand out like lights. I suppose you can call him handsome. His navy robes are certainly very well tailored.

The man smiles and put down his cup. He reminds me of a second year in my house, Ellsworth Selwyn. However, he has none of the devilish aura Ellsworth does.

"Darling, this is Lane Selwyn," my father says he points to the man. So they were related.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Selwyn," I whisper demurely as I move forward to shake his hand. Ladies are supposed to be quiet.

"Please, Lane."

Mr. Selwyn's grip is very strong and his hand warm.

I sit close to my father's chair on the couch, folding my legs under me as Andie taught me to do. If it were Bella, she'd have been leaning back and showing her feet, no doubt.

"Beautiful isn't she? Just like her mother," my father praises.

I smile again and turn my eyes down. Without looking, I could feel Mr. Selwyn's cold, steel eyes on me. Father turns to me.

"Narcissa, you've just met your future husband."

My eyes jerk up to see Mr. Selwyn. He suddenly seems far less ideal. I begin to notice the little lines around his eyes, the strands of grey hair hiding by his ears. He is far too old! How could I marry someone like him? I know that father is only looking out for me, but he never asked me at all! How was it that he felt it not pertinent to consult me? It is wrong!

I can feel my heart sinking under the weight of my dress. Everything feels blue and like ocean water drowning me. I don't want him! My father and Mr. Selwyn are discussing details of my betrothal, but I can't hear any of the words they are saying. I can't breathe.

They are laughing now. I cast my gaze at my father and see that he is smiling and happy. I try my best to play the part, but I cannot overcome the horrible feeling inside me. Suddenly, I am aware of the greedy undertone of Mr. Selwyn's glances toward me. It is the way that I see men look at Bella sometimes. It is revolting.

"Father—" I say quietly.

He continues his conversation. I must have spoken too softly.

"Father—" I repeat, louder this time.

Again he ignores me.

"Father, _please_—" I say urgently.

His face suddenly slackens and turns to me, irritated. "What is it?"

"It's just that—I don't want to marry him."

My father's eyes blaze and he shoots out of his seat. He is livid as he slams down his cup, brown tea splashing all over the glass tabletop. His hand shakes as he points toward the stairs. I feel rotten at having angered him, but I simply cannot marry that man.

"Go to your room, you petulant child!" he shouts.

I quickly scurry away, picking up my mother's dress skirt as to not step on the precious fabric. I pass Bella standing at the foot of the stairs. She takes one look at me and laughs mercilessly. I run up the stairs so she will not see me cry.

To be a good daughter is a terrible burden.

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><p>End: Shall we continue, or have we had enough?<p> 


	2. Lignite

A/N: And we begin the journey following Narcissa's ever evolving voice.

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><p><strong>Lignite<strong>

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My father never spoke to me again. To this day, I cannot understand why my refusal of Lane Selwyn shook him so. The man turned out to be a sadist, beating his new wife to death. The papers won't say that's what happened, but we all know better. Imagine if that had been me! Father should be glad that I had the foresight to not subject myself to that kind of fate.

Bella insists that I disgraced him beyond words, but she is only trying to stoke the fire. I see nothing that he couldn't live down in front of his clients. He tried to sell me. My father grows alarmingly older now, his white hair receding on his alabaster scalp. He always sits in his study, wordlessly going over his accounts.

I turned fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen to his silence.

Yesterday, I left for my sixth year at Hogwarts, and he did not even so much as glance at me. It is as though I simply ceased to exist after I defied him. I suppose he's used to it, forgetting his daughters.

Bella visited every now and then with her husband, and he would seem overjoyed to see them both. He always says they are his pride and that he's waiting for the day she bears him a grandchild. But I know she never will. Bella doesn't love Rodolphus, you see, she never did. She loved his money and his name. Bella loves another man, one who refuses to be with her. I know because I am not loud and indiscreet as she often is; I keep my secrets close to my heart.

I can't wait until I can leave that house.

I don't know where I'll go, but I can't live there with him ignoring me. It isn't right for a father to ignore his daughter. Bella's house is out of the question—the Lestranges are absolutely mental. Perhaps with my aunt, but then I'd have to stand Sirius. In these recent times, I often think of Andie. I could never look at her when I saw her at school. Sometimes, though, I think I'd like to go live with her, but I've yet to forgive what she's done to us by being with that boy. She's just moved into a beautiful new flat and sent me a picture. I kept the letter secret, reading it in the dim candle light long after father had gone to bed.

I dared not write back.

If I had, I would have told her that her choice of drapes was horrid.

She's sent me another letter today. I held it in my robes all day, feeling slightly ill at having to conceal it amongst so many stares. If word got back to either my father or Aunt Walburga, they would disown me in a heartbeat.

The clock has just struck twelve, and the last of the students are resigning to their beds. They are all tired from the change of a new year. Even that strange Snape boy, who frequently stays up all night, is packing up his tattered books. He seems to notice me anxiously glancing at him, waiting for him to leave. My eyes try to not follow him as he descends the steps toward the boys' dormitory. Finally, the common room is empty.

With trembling hands and alert ears, I pull the parchment out of my inner robe pocket. The wax seal breaks open easily and Andie's regular, slim words spill onto paper. I can almost feel the warm of her smile in them.

"Cissy," she writes. "I hope you are well as you begin your first year of school without me. Sixth year is a tumultuous time, and I send you all my love. I know you read my letters and can only wish that you write me back."

A creak interrupts me, and I quickly jam the parchment into my Transfiguration book and pretend to read. Someone rustles, slowly entering the common room. I try to look busy in my armchair, but I can't help sneaking a glance at the door. Stumbling in, with tussled blond hair, was our seventh year Prefect, Lucius Malfoy. He glances around the room quickly before treading cautiously toward the dormitory steps, as if avoiding being caught.

He suddenly jumps, upon noticing me in the armchair.

"Oh, I didn't see you there, Narcissa." He keeps his voice down as if we could be overheard.

I stare at him, unimpressed by his charming grin.

"It's unbecoming for a Prefect to be breaking curfew," I say tartly.

He scratches his head sheepishly and shrugs. By the way he sways slightly and the emanating stench of liquor, I know he is slightly drunk.

"You won't tell Slughorn, will you?" His blue eyes are intensely trained on me.

"I take no pleasure in damming the already condemned."

Malfoy gives an throaty laugh and staggers forward, holding onto the opposite armchair for support. He slumps down before me and leans his head on his hands. I grip my book tightly, hoping he does not notice the conspicuous ridge where I'd sandwiched the letter in the pages.

"Well, Miss Narcissa, I give you my thanks. You can call of me for any favor in the future."

"Anything?"

"Anything-you-need," he slurs.

He tilts toward me and I instinctively shift away. Up close, I can see the cracks in his dry lips and the stubble on his aristocratic chin. He reeks. I can tell he's been with a girl. He's always with a girl. At least, whenever I've seen him. He's one of those people you always hear about but never speak with. It would damage my good standing as an elegant lady to be associated with his debauchery.

Miranda Graves talks day and night about how handsome Malfoy is; she stares at him with wide eyes every meal as if he were some precious artifact. She goes on constantly about his "princely brow" and his high class air. He'd never have her as she has a bad foot and walks with a cane. I do agree that he is handsome, but I find him rather vain and pretentious.

The way he always turns his nose up at everyone is ill-fitting. He acts as though his House is nobler than the Blacks, but I know all about his family. My aunt always talks of them. She used harsher words, but the gist was his father committed a shameful crime and had to buy his way out of Azkaban. And it wasn't the sort of acceptable act against Muggles either; it had something to do with embezzlement. Then there was the funny business with how his brother Silas suddenly vanished.

I suppose we all have our skeletons.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," I say curtly, giving a cue for him to leave.

"Lucius," he insists as he throws himself toward me. He is practically falling out of his chair.

I am taken aback by his loose forwardness. Proper gentleman should not act in this way. I shove him on the shoulder and he hits the back of his chair languidly.

Steeling my voice, I say coldly, "Goodnight then, Lucius."

"Yes, a good night indeed."

His eyes glisten in the firelight as he leaves.

Sure that the common room was vacant again, I sneak out the letter and continue to read.

"I write to father and Bella too, but they return my letters unopened. Cissy, don't be stubborn like them. I am still your sister and will always be. Just give Ted a chance; he's a perfectly capable wizard just like the rest of us."

Ted Tonks. The Muggle. What a horrible and undignified name.

"We're getting married next month, and I'd like someone from my family to be there. Won't you come?"

I drop the letter as if it were scorching. My lungs ache.

Married?

I picked up the parchment and read the line again. Married—to a Mudblood. How could she abandon our noble House like that? We can give her everything, and he can give her nothing. Him, a second class citizen—how could she? I feel extremely angry and disappointed in her. I had hoped she would break it off with him and return to us. I hoped that it was a passing phase like when I sometimes find myself lingering with certain unworthy boys. Now she could never ever be my sister again.

Not even bothering to read the rest of her letter, I tossed it into the dying fire. My lips tremble as I watch it burn, flames eating away her neat words. I loved her, but she has truly betrayed the House of Black. In this world, our name, our blood is everything.

I won't cry for her.

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><p><strong>Footnotes<strong>: Miranda, as named for Shakespeare's naive character in _The Tempest_ who falls hopelessly in love with the first man she meets.


	3. Bituminous

**Bituminous**

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Last night kept me awake in my bed until dawn.

They say that only the guilty suffer insomnia, but I am not guilty. I have done no wrong.

Things are a jumble, and I can't help but notice its a terribly isolating experience. It is though I am the only one with clarity amidst a mass of ignorant people. Perhaps others have the same dilemma of choosing between blood and impulse, but surely their pain pales in comparison to mine.

Stupid Miranda is taking up my mirror and powdering her face for the fiftieth time. It isn't as if that's going to make her look any better. She picks up her books and primps herself again, picking at her stray hairs and posing every few seconds to check all her angles.

She smooths her brown locks over her shoulders and turns to me.

"Why are you still in bed? We'll be late for Potions!" she lectures.

I dig myself deeper in my bed and blink my tired eyes at her. There are dark circles under them, no doubt.

"I'm not going."

She looks scandalized. "Why not?"

"I feel ill."

Miranda raises her eyebrows skeptically and says, "You Blacks are so over-dramatic, really." That's because we are. To my relief, she hobbles out the door after one last look in the mirror. I push myself out from the covers and venture over to the desk to retrieve my hairbrush. I don't feel much like getting dressed or wearing make up, but taking care of my hair is a must.

The brush crackles roughly as it pulls on snags which have built themselves overnight through endless tossing and turning. I slow down and start from the bottom; starting at the root would break the strands.

Fish are swimming outside my window, disrupting the streams of blue light. It makes me feel as though I were a mermaid on display in an aquarium. But I'd rather have my bit of real water than a fake painting of all the sky. When we first moved in my first year, we had the choice of the lake view or the painting. I paid my roommates ten galleons each to choose the lake. Miranda was the most reluctant, but I sneaked her another galleon under the table, and she relented. People are so hopelessly swayed by gold.

Even the most principled man has a price.

My father makes sure that we'll always have enough gold to persuade anyone. Every wizard has a talent and my father's gift is his Midas touch. It is said that when he was ten, he made his first hundred galleons. When he was eighteen, he'd amassed ten thousand. And when he turned thirty, he'd built an empire of millions in investments. When I was younger, I used to joke with him that he receives gold from anyone who spends more than ten minutes in his company.

Our inheritance is already quite abundant, but he pours over his business accounts day and night still. He never speaks to me, but I know that he's just acquired some new properties in London. At this rate, we'll own half of the city soon.

I have no such gift. I don't think I've ever made a sickle in my life and I wouldn't know how, but it won't matter. People will tell you that Bella and I are spoiled rotten and treat gold like water. It's all true. Price is never an issue, especially with clothing; style is independent of monetary value. If I see something I want, I always get it. Those less fortunate ask if I ever worry about running out of gold, and I can only laugh in response. I only worry about running out of space. Father has earned enough to last us ten lifetimes.

I return to bed and read my Potions text. It would not do to fall behind and let Professor Slughorn whisper disappointments to my father.

Before long, it is lunch time, and I must force myself to put on my school robes. It would be much better if wizards could invent a way to not eat. Eating is such a chore! I long to be like a tree, standing regal and facing the sun for all I need. To be rid of the vulgar acts of chewing, swallowing, and digesting ...the thought is quite poetic.

I braid my hair in a long plait in preparation for the outside world.

Not wanting to speak to anyone, I take my copy of _Witch Moda_ with me.

The Great Hall is loud with the voices of countless hungry students. When I seat myself, I look up at the head table and notice that Professor Slughorn is looking down at me with a concerned expression. Smiling, I wave to him then feign a cough. He seems satisfied with the display. We both know I'm not sick in the slightest bit. My father contributes favors to him often; therefore, he always dotes on me.

I turn my attention to my kidney pie and magazine, flipping through the beautiful photography while I eat. I can't say that this season's offerings are my favorite. Trousers are apparently becoming popular, but it seems such a shame to have to trade interesting skirt silhouettes for leg definition.

Just as I am turning the glossy page, someone plops down beside me.

I turn to my right and see that it's Malfoy. He is much cleaner in the daylight and has parted his pale hair so finely it seems he might have used a knife to do it. How appropriate that it is him who is so rude as to disturb me when I'm clearly occupied. The idiot rests his head on his hand as he slumps his weight onto the table.

He smirks with lips slightly parted, showing his perfect teeth. Corrected, most likely.

"I didn't see you at breakfast."

Malfoy twirls his elm wand in an attempt to look impressive. I draw up my best uninterested look and reply, "Obviously."

"Were you invisible?"

"No, that's an asinine question. I was not present."

"A shame. You were missed," he drones on.

"And pray tell, by whom?"

"Oh yes! Why, by your loyal subjects, Princess." Malfoy whispers and gives me a subtle wink, probably thinking himself clever.

"And what would that have to do with you?"

He places a hand over his heart and returns slyly, "Such ice, Narcissa. You hurt me."

I refrain from making a snide comment about him lacking a heart. The countless girls who end up crying over him in the bathroom all say one thing, that no one ever lasts more than a month. Fed up with his slimy presence, I state simply, "Do you have something of importance to say? Because contrary to what you may think, I'm more interested in my lunch than I am in you."

"Now now, no need for such hostility. I merely want to let you know that I'm serious about the favor." His voice is smooth and low as he speaks, barely moving his lips. He trains his eyes on me and scans my form from top to bottom. "I'd be happy to be of service regarding relief of any—tensions you may have."

How dare he! I shoot him an offended scowl and return my attention to my magazine. The crass nature of his tone is enough to make my skin crawl.

"What?" He sounds alarmed.

I continue to fix my eyes on the magazine images. Malfoy is getting nervous. I can sense it from his tension, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my gaze. The blue topaz ring in _Witch Moda_ is quite interesting. I pretend to be extremely engrossed in inspecting it, tracing my eyes over its square gemstones and silver lines.

"Don't be so uptight!"

I give him a weary glare and snap the pages shut. He's ruined my appetite.

"Good day, Lucius."

He seems shocked to see that I am preparing to leave. Malfoy simply can't fathom that a girl wouldn't want him. And why should I be one of his conquests? I'm better than that.

I can't help but smirk as I turn my back on him.

The halls are crowded as I make my way toward the dungeons. I stay close to the walls to avoid having to come into contact with the many scared first years who are frantically rushing to their first classes. There's just this sort of rankness about them. Leaving home for the first time somehow draws out all the unpleasant odors in people.

"Narcissa!" I hear a deep sandy voice call out for me between the murmurs.

My eyes avert to the source of the sound and are caught on a tall figure behind me. He shakes brown hair out of his eyes as he races toward me. I recognize him as the handsome Ravenclaw boy who frequently sits behind me in Charms. He has very prominent dark features and moves with purposeful grace.

"Narcissa," he repeats, slightly out of breath, "You may not know me. I'm in Charms with you. I'm—"

"Samson," I say, interrupting him.

Samson seems surprised that I know his name. I make it a point to know everyone's names; people treat you much better if they think you care about them. His thick eyebrows arch the tiniest bit as he smiles fluidly. I can't help but smile in return. His mirth is infectious. My classmate swings his large hands forward as if to shield himself from me.

"Oh goodness, I'm mortified that my reputation precedes me," he jokes, pretending to intimidated.

I don't find it particularly funny, but the exaggerated way he is shaking his arms makes me laugh.

"You require something," I remark once my breath has slowed.

"Straight to business! Yes, that's the way to be."

He's blushing.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense." I am very curious.

Samson runs a hand through his long, messy hair and bows dramatically with one arm behind his back. It is the way which gentlemen bow to ladies when formally asking them to dance. With a serious tone, he asks, "Miss Black, may I have the pleasure of your company this weekend in Hogsmeade?"

I narrow my eyes at his request. I know next to nothing about this boy or whether he was good company to be keeping. He smiles at me again, and I feel very taken with his genuineness.

"You're asking me on date," I say, matter-of-fact.

He grins and raises a hand with palm extended. "Well, if you insist on phrasing it that way, I suppose yes."

This lively Samson makes me feel bright with his eternal smiles. I've forgotten the unsavory taste of Malfoy in my head. He takes my hand and places the smallest of kisses on the back, lips barely brushing my skin. I bite my lip to keep the giggles down.

"Where?"

He rolls his brown eyes upward in thought.

"Three broomsticks, two o'clock. What do you say?"

On edge, Samson awaits anxiously for my answer. He attempts to look nonchalant, but is failing miserably as his tapping foot gives his nerves away.

"I shall see you then, Mr. Cohen," I answer with the same formality as his request.

He smiles again and I do as well.

.

* * *

><p>Footnotes: Samson is, of course, an allusion the legend of the same name from the Nazirite.<p> 


	4. Anthracite

**Anthracite**

.

.

"So, you and Samson Cohen," Miranda says dreamily.

"I wouldn't say that we're an item yet."

Her heart-shaped face is buried in a book, preventing me from seeing her expression. I can only imagine the curve of her far-apart eyes. She is painting her nails while reading for History of Magic, splayed out on her bed. Miranda is only person I've ever met that takes an interest in history. She flips a page absently and hums to herself, all while blowing on her nails.

"He is quite good looking though," my other roommate, Daisy Harkiss, supplies from her corner of the room. "I hear he plays in a band."

"He does," I confirm, unhappy at being the subject of discussion. The headboard is stiff and uncomfortable, and I sit up to relieve my aching back. Daisy pushes her thick glasses up and bends closer to her essay. I love her to pieces, but Daisy is one of those bookworms that is never going to realize there's more to life than homework.

"What's their name?" she asks.

"Lake Effect Lad," Miranda answers almost immediately. She is the center of Hogwarts gossip and never fails to lets us know of her superior reserves of useless trivia.

Daisy spins around from her desk with a disbelieving look.

"Like a Fat Lad? What kind of name is that?" she exclaims.

Miranda explodes in giggles and nearly topples her vial of red nail lacquer. She buries her head in her pillow in an attempt to stop laughing. To her defense, I'm laughing too. Daisy's long face is scrunched as she tries to figure out why we are both hysterical. "What?" she asks, wanting in on the joke.

"It's Lake Effect," Miranda enunciates clearly in-between giggles, "as in, the lake makes the winter deathly cold."

I hold a hand over my mouth to prevent further outbursts. Bella breaks out in laughter often, and I can safely say that it looks very undignified.

"Oh," Daisy says as she rolls her eyes. "That's a terrible name. You really ought to tell him to change it." She turns to me.

"I know," I concede.

We all go back to our studies, but are suddenly interrupted by a muffled splashing from the wall. All three of us simultaneously turn to see what has made the noise. Being underwater, nothing had every been to our window before. I look to Miranda, who then looks at Daisy, who in turn, looks back at me. We're at a loss for words. I shake my head as Daisy shuffles over to the dark window for a better look. She does not heed my warning as she raises her wand to the glass and whispers, "Lumos."

Miranda and I both hold our breaths as Daisy presses her face to the glass.

"Blimey, it's a fish," she finally announces.

"A fish?" Miranda says incredulously. The window taps again, and Daisy tilts her head to one side curiously.

"It's got a package. I think it's for you, Narcissa," she adds.

"What?" I stumble out of bed to see for myself. In the frosty window pane was, no doubt about it, a large grey fish. It's flat lips were opening and closing as it struggled to support a small black box. In small, glittering silver script was the note: "to N.B."

"Unbelievable," Miranda murmurs behind us.

I start gliding my hands over the window frame, looking for a way to let the fish in the room. I hoist myself onto Daisy's nightstand to feel the top the window. Sure enough, at the very top of the pane was a knob. "I'm going to open it," I say resolutely.

"But the water!" Daisy protests, clearing away her precious books from the stand.

Miranda shoves her aside and takes out her wand. "We're witches, aren't we?"

"Not yet. If it leaks, you can do whatever you'd like," I say. Everyone pauses before they each give me a nod. I twist the knob to the right and the metal frame creaks out an inch. So far so good, no water. I pull on the knob a bit and the glass suddenly crashes down with a thud. Daisy and Miranda both shriek as the pane falls toward them. Expecting rushing water, I jump down from the nightstand and toward the door.

To our surprise, water flooded in a prism above the window, but no more. Clear waves sloshed in the middle of the room. The big grey fish swam forward into the invisible tank. It's fins twitched as it reached the end of the water prism. It reminds me of the enchanted aquarium my father gave to Regulus for his birthday. Regulus was very excited, as he should have been; it was very expensive. His no good brother, on the other hand, made some snide comments about throwing things through the floating water.

"You've got to be kidding me," Daisy says as she touches the water in midair.

"Narcissa, take the package!"

I tentatively inch forward and reach into the water. It is painfully cold. I grab the box, and the fish swims backwards, releasing itself from its parcel. With a frantic tail wave, it slips back into the night water of the lake. I pull the box out of the water; it is no bigger than my palm.

"Step aside," Miranda commands as she levitates the window pane back into the wall, pushing water back out.

We're all silent for a few moments after the window has closed.

"Well, open it!"

I take the wet little box and strip off its silver ribbon. It springs open with a pop, and my eyes widen at its contents. Inside, on puffy white velvet, sat a silver ring with two square blue topaz stones, the ring from Witch Moda. It sparkles elegantly in the candle light.

Miranda gasps as she peers over at it. Daisy is similarly surprised and adjusts her glasses to see it clearer.

I take out a little note from the top and unfold it.

"Consider us even? — Lucius Malfoy."

The girls make scandalized noises. I instantly feel sick. He must have thought that I was looking at the ring in the magazine because I wanted it. My brow furrows and snap the box shut. I hand it over to Miranda for her to hold and move to my desk.

The bastard think he can buy me, as if I were some destitute commoner easily swayed by fortune. His wealth is neither impressive nor unique. This type of bribery is vulgar. It is the same intolerable arrogance with which my father had tried to arrange a marriage. I won't have this blatant disrespect. I sit at my desk and prepare to draft a reply.

"Narcissa, don't you want it? Put it on! It's beautiful!"

"No, I'm sending it back," I snap.

Miranda looks at the ring longingly and asks, "Can I keep it then? Ah, Lucius, the way he sent it was so romantic! A fish!"

"No!" I shout, "I'm sending it back!"

.

.

I let my owl take the gift back to Malfoy in the morning and did not linger at breakfast to see him receive it. It's rude to gloat, and I won't stoop to his level. The event has left me in a rather foul mood. I was hardly present in class and Flitwick called me several times before I responded.

Everyone is leaving the classroom now, filing out while gossiping amongst themselves. Samson lingers at the door to wait for me. His long hair is blocking his eyes as usual.

"Hi," he says simply.

I give him a small smile and walk out of the door frame.

Samson's deep sandy voice is filled with concern. "You seem upset."

"It's a trifle." I shake my head to try to stop the subject.

He pulls my arm to steer me against the wall. "Meet me tonight by the kitchens. Eleven," he whispers.

"That's way past curfew."

"Trust me. Don't be late."

He gives a goofy smile and salutes before he leaves.

My heart pounds with every step he takes.

The rest of the day is a blur as I wait for eleven. I count down the minutes while sitting in the common room, writing my papers. I catch a glimpse of Malfoy walking past the couches but he avoids my eyes. Nine, ten, ten thirty, the hours seem to slow as I inch toward eleven. Never have I done something like this. I feel anxious that I am being so reckless, like I've stolen something and am waiting to be caught. But I can't say I'm not mad at myself for indulging in this impulse.

I meet Samson by the kitchens just as he ask, and he pulls me to a tiny painting, a still life. Using his wand, he taps the upper corner of the frame and the painting swings ajar. He pries the picture from the wall and gestures for me to go through it. The path behind the painting is narrow and dark.

Our silvery wandlight is barely enough to see the path ahead. Sensing my hesitation, Samson grabs my hand from behind and squeezes. It makes me feel better. The hall seems to shrink more and more until we are walking hunched over. Finally, at the end, we meet a small door that is no taller than waist height. Yellow light bleeds from its frame.

I look back at Samson, unsettled by the absurdity of such a small door. He merely grins back at me and encourages me to open it. I push the door open and step through it, careful not to hit my head.

Somehow, we've managed to get into the kitchens.

My chest holds my breath as I look out at the vast rows upon rows of ornate stone sinks and ovens.

"How did you find this?"

He emerges from the tiny door and shrugs. "Just tried every painting and door in the castle. Come on, let me make you something."

"You cook?" I ask, thoroughly surprised. I haven't the foggiest clue about how any food is made.

"Of course," he replies proudly. "And I will make us some crepes."

Pushing his hair out of his face, he inspects the kitchens and makes his way toward a large metal box against the wall. He opens it with his wand and levitates a cup of white powder out. Then, he proceeds to hunt around the large chamber for other ingredients.

I can only stand and watch as he mixes everything and pours it into a round skillet. The mixture is a slightly yellow concoction with a consistency similar to Draught of Hysteria. In the skillet, it instantly changes from opaque to translucent with a soft glow. I've never seen a crepe like this. It feels as though it could light up the dark.

It's fascinating how something so simple can be so complex. I'd never really taken a thought to the fact that our house-elf must do this every meal. Samson is accommodating and explains every step and every ingredient to me. I found the change of a clear and yellow egg into solid white over a fire to be especially fascinating magic. By his expression, I can tell his is amused that I know nothing about the culinary arts.

We sit on the numerous metallic carts while we eat. Samson is quite good at cooking. I could barely tell the difference between his dish and the ones the house-elves serve.

"I think I shall like to learn to cook," I tell him once I've finished my plate.

"Oh really."

"Yes."

I move to throw my plate away and he jumps off his cart to stop me.

"What are you doing! Don't throw that away!"

"But it's dirty, and there aren't supposed to be any dirty plates here. They'll know," I explain myself, feeling quite confident it was the right thing to do.

"But you can't just throw them away! We'll wash them. That's throwing money away. I'm a Jew; I care about these things!" he pulls the plate back with exaggerated outrage.

I look at him dumbly, confused at the notion of washing dishes and his strange words.

"What's a Jew?"

Samson looks mildly hesitant then sets both his plate and mine in one of the sinks and turns the water on. He raises the dishes with his wand so they can be rinsed under the running stream. Giving me the strangest look, he says, "A Jew, you know, of Jewish descent."

I shake my head, not comprehending.

"My great-grandad was a Muggleborn. In the Muggle world, his family was Jewish, a type of people. Sort of like how people have different color skin, but different."

I try my best to not show my disappointment that he was practically a half-blood. My father would be heartbroken, if he acknowledged me. "But you don't look any different," I venture.

Samson laughs and jumps back onto a cart.

"Well, I don't know too much about it. No one in my family does anymore, but my dad always says that it's something to be proud of—being a Jew. All I know is that regular Muggles don't like them very much, and Jews are very shrewed with their money, and we have very peculiar noses."

I laugh. What strange features to define people with!

He rolls himself around the sink by kicking the counters.

"I guess my family could be Jews too then. We don't like Muggles," I say. "And all we do is deal with money. And our noses," I pointed to my slightly up-turned nose, "are very distinct."

Samson smiled from ear to ear, his sunken eyes crinkling. With the dishes washed, he set everything back to its original place. We went through the miniature door back out to the castle halls and he insists on walking me back to the dungeons. On the way down, we narrowly missed Peeves who hurled just above us on the staircase.

Outside the Common Room, he casually gives me a kiss. I am so flustered that I can barely feel it.

"We'll make a fantastic cook out of you, just wait!" he whispers in my ear before he turns to leave.

I watch him go into the darkness, wishing he would run back and kiss me again so I can remember this time.

I yawn as I tread quieting into the Common Room.

To my alarm, the fire is still burning strong in the corner and Malfoy is passed out with his blond head on a pile of scattered parchment. So he does study, after all. Feeling daring and brave, I tip toe over and glance at the papers. They seem all be correspondences and not homework. I slide a small sheet out from under his pale hand.

"Mr. Nott, Please allow me the remainder of the school year to campaign for our Lord..."

Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Everyone speaks of them in hushed whispers, but no one dares to openly pledge themselves. He has good ideas, but there is something strange about this Dark Lord. It is very strategically brilliant, though, that Malfoy is working under him already.

I drop the parchment as my Prefect stirs. He looks haggard and worn.

Taking pity, I shake him awake so he may go to sleep in his bed. Malfoy blinks away his dream and frantically tries to conceal his papers from me.

"Breaking curfew, are we?" he reprimands bitterly as he puts on a tough face.

I extend a hand to him, and he eyes me suspiciously.

"Even?"

He stares at me for a minute before shaking my hand slowly. It is an awkward gesture made only more awkward by the lack of grace from his tired arms.

"Goodnight, Lucius."

"Goodnight, Narcissa."

His normally bright voice is frail and almost sad.

I briefly wonder if something has happened. But then again, I can't say I really care.

.

* * *

><p>Footnotes: From lake effect lad to Jews, all things once said by real people.<p> 


	5. Carbonado

**Carbonado**

.

.

A few years have passed since I left Hogwarts.

I live in a small, but luxurious flat in London that overlooks Canary Wharf, swimming in a sea of canvases and paint.

Not knowing what life has in store for me, I decided to become an artist, painting my desires until they one day show me the way. The city's nightly blinking lights serve as my tireless inspirational muses. My most popular paintings are based on the lingering resonance they etch on the insides of my lids after I have closed my eyes.

Upon suggestion from Professor Slughorn, I tried my hand at being a healer, but the sight of blood makes me faint, and so my stint in St. Mungo's was short-lived. Painting and cooking are far better. It fills a hole in my being whenever I produce a work, be it portrait or plate of food. And when others enjoy said work, they tell me that it fills a hole in their being as well.

The night I got back from my last year, I packed my trunk and went to my father's study. I looked him square in the face and told him I was leaving. He neither looked back nor spoke. Enraged that even at the sight of his last daughter departing, he carried on with his business, I screamed at him. He sighed and finally met my eyes. With a bony hand, he took out a book and wrote me a check for a million galleons.

My father placed the slip of parchment on the corner of his desk closest to me and said, "Stay well, Narcissa."

I tried to coax him into further conversation but he had none of it. In my room, I wept bitterly, lamenting the reality that he cared for me, but not enough to keep me.

I left the next morning.

That was the last time I saw my father.

Samson and I have been together all these years. His shoulders are broader now and his eyes kinder. He says my cauldron cakes are becoming legendary amongst those in the publishing house he works for. Samson has published three novels and claims I am his strength and his muse. I read them and cannot believe for a single moment his art has anything to do with me. His stories are sad and plays the heart's chords. He is truly a beautiful soul.

His hair has grown long past his shoulders now. I joke that it makes him look like a real artist, to have such unusually unkempt hair. Samson merely laughs and replies that it is better to be one than to look like one.

I think I shall marry him one day.

He always complains of Lucius, with whom I have established a grudging acquaintance that borderlines friendship. No matter how much I reassure Samson that Lucius only sells my art, he remains unhappy about our interactions.

"If men were harlots, he would be one," Samson always says.

And it would be unfair to fault him. It is rather true.

Lucius has a way with people. All he needs to do is make a witty remark, smile with his teeth showing, and anything he wants is his. He is not just my dealer; we accompany each other to social events held by the old houses. They are essential to assuring patronage and standing, but I cannot take Samson with me. He is hardly an asset with his long hair and unimpressive name. Yet it would be a lie to say that we are more than professional. Lucius has many other women. I see them on his arm sometimes. Most of them are pretty and slim, dressed in the latest fashions he buys for them. They are the type of women who are at once breathtaking and utterly forgettable. They are not the type of women one uses to garner prestige.

So we require each other, you see.

I spent my year in London, at first, thinking I would grow tired of this city built aorund endless avenues of people, where one can either find themselves or lose themselves. My second year, I only occasionally whispered to Samson of perhaps leaving. And now, the thought has vanished altogether.

Bella and I only speak briefly sometimes, when she is not consumed with the work of her Dark Lord. She thinks I'm playing a game to occupy myself. And perhaps she is right.

Today is a bright and cheery April morning. Lucius has sent word that Bathilda Bagshot requires her commission a week early. The painting is quite large and requires me to purchase more paints. She wants a two meter tall portrait of her pet cat, but only in yellow.

I gather a large quantity of gold into my charm-extended satchel and Apparate to Diagon Alley.

It took me quite a while to become accustomed to the Muggle entrance through the Leaky Cauldron. The brick wall and general area is quite dingy, and I always hold my breath entering. One of these days, I shall write to the Ministry about having it rebuilt to higher standards.

I buy my paints quickly so I can do some shopping before the stores become busy and I must wait in queues to make purchases. The Millinery has new hats in today, and I spend a good amount on one with Golden Snidget feathers. It is simply too exquisite to say no. Dahlia, the shop-girl, knows I never leave without spending my gold and tries to steer me toward other hats.

"How about this brilliant green Fwooper piece," she says as she hands me another. "Guaranteed to constantly whisper in your ear!"

I assure her that one overly stately hat is enough for my summer.

Once outside, I put the hat on and bask in its beauty.

I am on my way to Knockturn Alley in hopes of hunting down some fascinating treasures when I stop dead in my tracks. A woman dressed in light pink robes with long black hair is ten paces from me. She too, stops in surprise. Her right hand is entwined around the chubby fingers of a little girl hiding in the bottoms of her robes.

The woman takes a step forward and I retreat one.

Andie.

My insides are twisting, pulling strength from me like a terrible lie. She picks up the little girl and settles her against a sloping shoulder. Andie walks toward me, and I long to run away, but am frozen by fear and shame. Her every step is a pounding pang of distress.

"Dora, this is your Aunt Narcissa," she says to the girl in a quiet, charming voice.

Her daughter's round face morphs into a smile, and she buries her head into her mother's hair. I swear that this little girl's hair is turning from brown to the dull ash blonde of my own hair. Andie pats Dora on the back and whispers for her to come out again.

I can only stand in silent horror.

"Cissy, this is my daughter Nymphadora."

My mind is moving but my lips are still.

I don't think of how happy they look, how adorable her child is. All I notice is that her daughter is dressed in second hand shoes, scuffed beyond the abilities of such a small child. I linger over the shoddy fabric quality of Andie's robes, the worn and piling fade of her seams. And my eyes dwell on the smallness and muddy clarity of the stone in her wedding ring. It is something that I would be insulted to receive. Ted Tonks is not making a very high salary if his wife and child are living in abject poverty. My father may or may not have something to do with it.

"She's b—beautiful," I tell her with a quavering voice. She isn't my sister and this isn't my niece. I shouldn't care.

Andie smiles, her sunken eyes looking nothing like Bella, who she very much resembles.

Their clear destitution makes me feel ill.

Rummaging through my bag, I gather all the gold I have left, about thirty galleons. I shove the pile into her hand and quickly walk away. The sound of coins falling on cobblestone ring through the air.

I refrain from turning around and seeing if she'd taken my gold.

I pray that I never end up like that.

Samson's smiling face floats in my head, but I push it away.

.


	6. Graphite

**Graphite**

.

.

"Narcissa, you've got to stop wasting your money like this."

Samson is resentful of the fact I left the house with a hundred galleons and came back with only paints and a hat. He paces the floor of my studio room, shaking his hands angrily in the air. I cannot understand why it is a worth a fuss. It isn't as though we're desperate for gold.

"It's only a hundred galleons," I say dismissively. My hat is quite worth what I paid for it. As for the rest...

His usually smiling brown eyes flash. "Only?" he repeats. "Only a hundred? Your father's money won't last you forever!"

"Then he'll give me more."

"And what will you do if he doesn't?"

"I sell my work."

To the elite, no less. My paintings are everywhere, hung in the houses of our most noble families. My first independent gallery is coming up, and there are whispers that the Minister himself will be present.

Samson snorts cruelly, as though it were laughable to consider. "Your work barely pays for itself, and Malfoy pockets most of it anyway. You can't be the high society lady you want to be on that measly bit."

I feel hurt and insulted.

"Well, if you were half as presentable as he is, maybe I wouldn't need him!" I shout crossly. "With your hair and your despicable pretense!"

He stops and presses his mouth into a thin white line. I can see clearly that his clenched fists mean molten anger will erupt from his mouth the moment he opens it. We stare at each other in unease, and he finally states dangerously, "And what if I don't want to be like him?"

"Then maybe—maybe I can't be with you."

He closes his mouth and stomps over to the door. With sharp movements, he grabs his cloak and swing it over his raw-boned shoulders. I can tell he's seconds away from leaving. Samson places a hand on he front door but glances back at me. I make no pleads for him to stay; I want him gone.

The door slams behind him, and the air is suddenly silent and void-like.

My legs feel weak and I sink onto a nearby stool, arms hanging heavily to my sides. I sometimes play this scene in my head when I am angry with Samson, thinking of how empowered and brazen it would feel to tell him off. But I feel none of those things now that I've done it. All that strikes me is how cold and empty it is without him. It is as though I am singularly alone.

I pull my bun down, trying to grasp at some solace, even if it is a breathy embrace from falling hair, mother's hair.

I look at a finished canvas by my feet. It is ugly without Samson.

Taking my wand, I shred it to pieces.

The oil and fabric screech as they dances across the floor. I send more destructive blasts at other nearby canvases. They're all worthless now anyway. My eyes burn with tears and I blink them back. Wood and scorched material explode everywhere. A poorly directed spell nearly hits my owl, and he hoots angrily while taking off in a frantic circle around the room before dodging out of the window.

I am crying now, earnestly, not caring if my make up smudges or tracks.

My insides ache like hopeless ashes, and I fall to the ground clutching my knees.

He's gone.

He's gone and I made him leave.

I can't stop sobbing. He wasn't coming back. The room spins with every spasm filled breath.

Suddenly, there's a knock on my door. The hollow sound echos around me and, for a moment, my hopes lift. Perhaps he has returned to forgive me. I'll open the door and he'll kiss me and take me in his arms. We'll embrace and say our apologies. But then I remember that Samson has a key. He has no need to request entry. More knocking comes from the door.

I stay very still and pretend to not be home.

"I know you're in there, Narcissa!" a smooth voice calls from outside.

My heart sinks.

I find a handkerchief in the bedroom and wipe my eyes before I open the door. Only jarring the door open a sliver, I peer out at my visitor. Lucius is standing outside, sharp and tall as an evergreen. I move to shut the door, but he is much stronger and pushes it open easily against my shaking hands. Lucius forces himself into the room. I turn away so he won't see the puffy redness around my eyes.

"Narcissa, your owl just came to me with this." He holds up a scrap of shredded painting. Lucius takes a look around the room and gasps. Concerned, he exclaims, "Merlin! What have you done?"

He steps over broken frames and runs a hand over one of the ruined paintings.

"What has happened?" he whispers, looking at me.

I retreat back to my stool and dab at my nose. I have nothing to say to him.

Running a hand through his close cropped hair, Lucius edges his way to me and bends down to get a good look. I bow my head to hide behind my flaxen curtain. He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. The warm touch only serves to make my heart palpitate and my eyes run again. Oh Samson, this isn't Samson.

"Narcissa, are you hurt?" he asks me softly.

I shake my head and press the handkerchief to my eyes.

"Why have you done this?"

He pulls my face upward with a gentle hand under my chin. I meet his gaze and notice that his grey eyes are kind, rather than the walls they usually are. He is beautiful like as the light in his name, but just as the Morning Star was before he fell from Heaven, Lucius is not what he seems. Inside his charm and shining exterior, his soul is the color of coal. One night at the Nott estate, in a drunken haze, he solemnly whispered to me that he holds the fate of our world in his hands, planning the deaths of wizards for the sake of his Lord.

"I don't want to p—paint anymore," I reply with a quavering voice.

He lowers himself on one knee and peers up at me. His words are lithe and soothing, an aria played especially for me. "But you are very talented, princess."

My eyes swim again. and I sniff back the moisture.

"We had a row. I'm blind now without him."

To my surprise, Lucius smiles. Gingerly, he takes my hand in both of his and squeezes my palm. There is a strangely satisfied look about him, like when a mischievous cat has finally caught his elusive mouse. "Then be with me," he says boldly. "Forget that git and be with me. I can give you anything you want and more."

I can't find a reply. The air between us is thick enough to cut.

Lucius rises and sweeps my long hair aside; the strands flow through his fingers easily, not catching on his rings. My eyes never leave his. He bends down and brushes his lip against mine. With closed eyes and sight surrendered, I let him kiss me as roaming hands lingering behind my ear and around my waist. It is an ephemeral rush of excited delight set against bitter loneliness.

His lips grow more demanding with each second as they trail down my neck. Lucius pulls me up against him in one swift motion and I gasp involuntarily. I cannot help but fear where this is going. My chest thumps painfully to remind me that this is not the man I love, but I oblige his wandering lips just the same.

He pulls me toward the bedroom with a wicked smile.

I follow.

He unhooks the top closure of my dress.

I let him.

He slides a hand up my skirt.

I sigh into his mouth.

He whispers that he's loved me for ages.

I die.

It is what he says to all of his conquests.

.

* * *

><p>Footnote: Morning Star was God's most prized angel before he fell and became Satan (Milton, <em>Paradise Lost<em>).


	7. Corallian

**Corallian**

.

.

I finished Bathilda Bagshot's cat portrait late last night, in a fog, and woke to it meowing this morning.

I am awake, but stay still under the covers.

The high pitched slur of soft feline calls stirs someone besides me. A strong arm reaches around and pulls me backwards in embrace. It squeezes my chest so hard I can hardly breathe. To be loved is a feeling incomparable to all else, save being the object of envy. My hand travels to grasp Samson's and meets a row of intricate rings.

Eyes fly open in alarm, I glance down to see a pale hand holding me.

Lucius Malfoy is in my bed.

Yesterday rushes back. I lift his arm so I can escape his grasp. What is this feeling? Is it being lost? Is it being pulled in several directions? Is it _shame_? Unable to describe it with a single word, I can only dwell on how it leaves an unsavory emptiness in my being.

Sad, relieved, precious, heartbreaking.

As Lucius's arm moves, I see the black lines printed on his skin. The Dark Mark, it is a thing of beauty. Tracing the clearly defined outlines, I marvel at it's soft edges and striking medium. Ink comes alive with the promise of thought from human skin. The skull and snake blend so perfectly that it could not be determined when one began and the other ended; they were one and the same and yet disjoint. This of type of image is not a creation of mortal minds; it is collective thought echoed loud enough to see. Just as Michelangelo, who spoke of his angel in marble whispering to be freed, the Dark Lord is an artist.

I shall like to meet him one day.

A hand grabs mine away from the arm and pulls them back. Lucius draws my touch to his face. The image of his nearly translucent skin burns in my mind. He looks to be made of wax in the morning sun.

My hands turn to water, and I cannot feel him even as he presses my fingertips against his brow.

"Good morning," he whispers with a smirk.

Silence.

I rise and shut myself in the lavatory so I do not lay my soul bare for him.

Chill of cold porcelain beneath my hands make me nauseous and disgusted at what I have just done. And yet there was a small voice my mind that taunted that I had wanted him, that I was not sorry. I throw on my dressing gown and prepare to face the man in my bed.

Lucius is already dressed when I emerge. He buttons the top collar of his shirt as he makes his way toward me.

"Tonight, I want to see you again." He slides a hand around my waist and places a potent kiss on my neck. "Malfoy Manor, six in the evening, sharp."

"And what if I am busy?"

His smile is sly. "Until _then_, Narcissa."

And then he leaves wordlessly.

I spend the day cleaning my flat, vanishing all traces of canvases, paints, and frames except for the giant yellow cat. The studio room seems absurdly large without any art strewn about. It doesn't feel like home, but I'll buy some furniture and make it into something soon enough. Perhaps I'll move.

Darkness falls on London quickly in these shortening days. I glance at the clock and notice that it is already five. Should I go see Lucius? I do need to give him the painting for Ms. Bagshot. It's merely a business call; I'm not going to visit.

I keep my getting-ready brief. Simply straighten my hair, dust my eyes with shadow, line them with ink, and put on some lipcolor. Then there's rouge and curling the lashes. I'm in the middle of applying the finishing power when I see myself, really see myself, in the mirror. It strikes me that I'm rather like Miranda Graves, preening myself and studying every angle. Feeling foolish that I was trying to impress Lucius, I drop the brush and stop.

The robes I choose are a rich wine color, wool pinched at the waist and flowing at the feet. My hand lingers over my mother's blue gown as I close the wardrobe door. It's funny, I'm going to see a man much like the one I refused to marry.

It is five thirty when I Apparate, shrunken canvas in my hand. Malfoy Manor is quite magnificent in the setting dusk. Yellow street lights line its iron gates, flickering in the breezing autumn wind. I approach the gates and pause my steps when I see someone coming down the dark marble stairs toward the gates. Quickly restoring the painting, I hold its weight against my shoulder. It will be obvious once he sees me that I'm here for business.

The figure makes its way to the iron bars, and I know that it is not Lucius but a woman. She has on tightly fitted floral robes and a pair of clacking high heels similar to my own. The gates let her out with a puff of smoke. She regards me with her bright green eyes and smile mysteriously. Falling at the edges, her copper spun hair is tucked in a messy and haste bun. After a subtle nod, she continues down the street, swing her hips with every straight step.

I set the painting against the gates and hurry home angrily.

How could I be so stupid to think that he wouldn't have someone else? Six o'clock and no earlier. He told me six so he could have his other fling leave before I arrived. I should have never taken him for anything more.

My eyes are stinging when I struggle trying to unlock my front door.

I'm such a fool to be played by him.

Once the door is open, I rush in and shut it forcefully. I lean against the door to make sure it is closed.

"Narcissa."

A sandy voice calls from the growing shadows.

"I'm so glad you're still here. I was afraid you'd packed up and left."

I wave my wand to light the candles and they reveal Samson, sitting on the floor. My heart leaps at the sight of him, long brown hair curving around his shoulders. His casual black robes pool around his crossed legs. They aren't expensive, but I don't care. He smiles and my breath catches in my lungs. My Samson.

"I'm sorry, Narcissa," he says apologetically.

No, I'm sorry. I can't meet his sharp eyes.

"I thought about what you said," Samson continues as he walks toward me, "and you're right. I should have considered you more."

There is something in his hands.

"No," I whisper weakly.

"Yes, I'm sorry. And I want to make things right."

My heart flutters in my chest. What have I done? What have I done? He'll never forgive me.

He presses something cold and smooth into my hands. I look down and see that it's a pair of scissors. Samson then summons a chair from the bedroom and sits down. There is nothing in the room but us, two ants in a box. He pulls my hand and the scissors toward his face.

"I want you to cut my hair."

Words catch in my throat, and I cannot do anything but shake my head.

"I want you to do it," he insists.

The scissors weigh impossibly. Samson drags a lock of long hair forward and envelope my hand in his, guiding me to make the first cut. Our fingers press the handle closed, and the hair falls against the resounding snip. Falling, falling,_ falling_, it hits the ground with a soft hiss. The left over edge is jagged and uneven, staring at me accusingly. I am frozen by his willingness to surrender himself.

"It's all right."

He smiles at me encouragingly.

And so I cut his hair, long strands of brown all broken and cast away.

A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light.

.

* * *

><p>Footnotes: Inspirations from Regina Spektor's "Samson". Please review!<p> 


	8. Chaolite

A/N: the problem emerges...read, review, and discuss!

* * *

><p><strong>Chaolite<strong>

.

.

I gather Samson's shed hair in the empty room's corner with my wand, wanting neither to touch nor throw it away. It's a terrible, faltering guilt, to love and feel devotion but no happiness for it.

A large brown owl, Bella's owl, flies in through the window and lands on the brown mass. The bird sticks his leg out impatiently. I take the note and shoo him away. The way his yellow claws curl around the hair makes it seem as though something has died. It makes my skin crawl to see. Hooting irritatedly, he flies off without another look.

I unfurl the little note and glance over the scrawled words.

"Father is dying. Come immediately."

My stomach turns. Father is dying, the words echo in my head over and over. My father, the Titan, is ill. How could it be? He, the untestable, immortal lord of our house. It wasn't true, it couldn't be! Everything is full of chaos, blinding and twisting. Sorrow clouds my mind and fogs my heart. What are we without him? What is our ancient house without the unyielding pillar that is Cygnus Black?

Aunt Walburga has gone insane with Sirius run away, Uncle Alphard is pliable as a clay, believing everything he hears, and Uncle Orion only wastes the family fortune fortifying his home. Who will keep our legacy strong? Regulus? The thought of my timid cousin who plays with his house-elf all day is laughable.

I do not even remember to grab my cloak before I Apparate to my father's house. The wind bites me harshly as I wait on the steps of my once beloved home.

Bella lets me in hurriedly and leads me to father's room.

"Be quiet, Cissy, don't startle him," she warns.

I tentatively lean into the door and see that he is lying in a bed of white, his hair nearly all gone. I duck out, feeling desperately morose.

"What is wrong with him?"

"The healers won't say anything except that he's only got a few weeks left. It's not contagious if that's what you're asking." Her tone is rough.

I venture another look at my frail father. "How did it get to be like this?"

"I found him here this morning," she hisses, "collapsed over his desk. Perhaps if someone visited him frequently, it wouldn't have come to this."

"If only," I repeat.

She blames me.

"Go!" Bella pushes me through the doorway forcefully.

I stumble in to the room, suddenly aware of the smell of elderly and sickness. Disinfectant assaults my senses mercilessly, crawling up my nose and through my eyes. My father is motionless on the huge bed which makes him seem all the smaller. His skin is paper thin and stretched over a bald egg-like head. Liver spots and infinite wrinkles mar his once regal face. This image of death parts its dry lips and utters a strangled noise.

He directs his bottomless blue eyes at me and holds a hand up weakly. A sob catches in my throat and I run to him. My poor father, this shrivelled corpse is my father.

I grasp his hand tightly in my own and press it to my cheek.

"I'm here," I breathe.

The dying man tries to raise his head but I place my fingertips on his head and try to keep him still. His cold hand reaches up and runs over my hair as if it were precious gold and he smiles, a sad and heartbreaking smile.

"Druella," he mutters, eyes overcome with emotion.

I wipe away the moisture from the corner of his glassy eyes, and reply softly, "Father, it's me, it's Narcissa."

His eyes focus for a moment as if he were finally seeing me clearly.

Suddenly, he withdraws his hand and tucks it stiffly down into the sheets. He sighs and turns his head away from me. I frantically try to reach for him again but he steels his fingers against his side. He closes his eyes and refuses to acknowledge me.

"Father," I plead.

Still, he shuts himself from me and I know it is futile. It would only anger him for me to try further so I back out slowly to join Bella in the hall.

She glares at me as I close the door.

"He won't speak to me," I concede.

"What kind of out of line drivel did you say?" she asks accusingly.

"Nothing! It's his stubborn pride that won't admit that he's been wrong for years."

Bella's eyes burn fiercely, and she slaps me across the face. My cheek burns like fire where she has struck me. She silences the doorway with her black wand and yells, "How dare you! That's our father in there! Don't you ever stop to think of all he's done for you?"

"He hasn't—"

"Why do you think anyone buys your silly paintings? Father pays people to!"

"But Lucius—"

"Is employed by our father!"

I stop cold. It's all been a lie. I've been living on my father's goodwill this entire time.

Bella does not stop her rampage, not even upon seeing my face fall.

"You know why he won't speak to you?" she cries, "Because he's disappointed that you're still wandering like a child! He's ill with the thought of you becoming the spinster people whisper about. He's ashamed to die with his precious daughter uncared for. Instead, you're still prancing around with that idiot Cohen. Why can't you just be like the rest of us and get married to someone decent so he can have his peace?"

It must be true—father won't speak to me unless I show him that I've grown up. And I shall show him before it is too late. He must know that I have not forsaken his values, that my future and my reputation are intact and will remain so.

But I have so little time.

I must get married.

.


	9. Diamond

A/N: The Finale, if you will. And in Narcissa's defense, it is a form of respectful duty to follow the wishes of one's elders.

* * *

><p><strong>Diamond<strong>

.

.

"Narcissa! A pleasure," Lucius drawls as if he is surprised, "you were sorely missed."

His strong brow is arched slightly, accompanying his curved stature to emphasize the easiness of his nature. Charcoal grey robes hang loosely from his sloped shoulder as he leans against the entrance wall. I'm mildly offended he hasn't invited me into the sitting room. If I did not want something from him, I would have excused myself from such rudeness already.

"I apologize, Lucius."

"No need, no need," he insists.

What I am doing with him—this devil in beautiful skin—eats at me. His wide eyes are penetrating as he smirks, telling of his suspicion that I am to surrender myself.

"May I come in?"

"Of course!" Lucius shows a welcoming hand.

I walk past him, toward the sitting room. The paintings in the hall are all whispering to one another as we pass by, jumping from frame to frame as if viewing something scandalous and gossip worthy. A large painting of a blond man with overwhelmingly large sideburns, the late Abraxas Malfoy, guards the archway to the sitting room. He clears his throat as we approach, and Lucius darts in front of me.

"Father, I present Narcissa Black," he quickly introduces.

"Master Malfoy," I address demurely and give a low curtsy.

The painting gives a grunt of curt acceptance, and Lucius leads me to one of the couches.

I sit down and cross my ankles, keeping with the formality of my visit. Lucius notices but sits next to me, rather than the customary across. He inches just a hair closer than comfort.

"Lucius, let us not bother with small talk."

"Certainly."

"I have a proposal for you."

His blue eyes widen slightly, and he tilts his head in interest.

"My father is ill, as you might know," I say, trying to sound as unemotional as possible. This is a question of business, after all.

"My condolences, I have not heard!"

Of course he has.

"I shall like to get married before he passes, so he may go in peace."

Lucius is on the edge of his seat, eyes glittering excitedly. It looks as though he is about to explode from delight. His pointed chin quivers in anticipation of what he knows I will say. "Go on," he whispers in a straining voice.

"If—if you." I had not foreseen how difficult this would be. "If you choose to ask for my hand, half of my inheritance will be yours. And I expect my father to leave me a substantial amount. Bellatrix will be given the house and its elf, but you hardly have need for those. And I presume I shall receive all of father's holdings in London because he knows Rodolphus has no head for business. And—"

"Narcissa," he stops my rambling. "Anything for you! It would be an honor to have you as my wife!"

Anything for my money and my name.

"But I need your word that you will be faithful to me. No mistresses, no whores."

Lucius seems hesitant.

"Narcissa... we are still young..." His words trail off. It is as I fear.

.

.

Samson is in the kitchen cooking lunch when I return. The entire hallway is filled with the aromatic scent of rosemary. He flashes me a wide smile as I hang up my cloak. My poor Samson. His jagged hair sticks up in all directions, unable to agree. It looks as though someone cut it blindly in the dark; it's awful. Avant garde, Samson says, always willing to look to the brighter side.

"I need to speak to you," I say softly.

He looks up from the stove, still unconcerned.

'Oh, just a minute, love. Wouldn't want anything to burn."

Wiping his hand on his ridiculous flowery apron, he returns to the skillet. My gaze lingers on him, and I stay rooted to the kitchen tile. Should I give him up, this wizard who loves me, cares for me, and would go to the ends of the earth for me? He is a nobody, a faceless man floating in society, someone who could never give me what Lucius can.

Yet he is loyal and kind.

He isn't perfect, but he is mine and mine alone.

"My father is dying." The words escape me.

Before I can continue, I already know that I have made my decision. It was never my choice to make, an answer that exists before the question is asked. I couldn't have changed it even if I were the most powerful witch on earth. Forgive me.

.

.

"Father." My whisper is so soft I can barely hear it.

His eyes startle open and he regards me blankly.

"I'm getting married, Father," I continue, grasping his bony hand.

Rheumy blue eyes dart to my left at where my fiance stands, silent and stiff as a tree. I think he is stunned at the sight of death so imminent. My rather raises his head feebly for a better look. Strange sounds escape his throat as he struggles against gravity. Quickly helping him, I charm him pillow. He sighs gratefully as the fabric puffs him upward.

"Narcissa."

"Yes, father," I immediate respond.

"This is–"

"Lucius _Malfoy_. I'm marrying Lucius Malfoy," I clarify, in case he does not understand.

I glance over to Lucius and shoot him an expectant look. He is paler than usual and swallows hard upon attention, all of his characteristic charm gone. It did not strike me that he would fear my father.

"Mr. Black" he begins, slow and unsure, "I'd...I'd like your blessing."

"Mmm," father groans, sound erupting deep from his chest. We are not sure whether he is happy or not. He makes the smallest of nods to show his approval. My heart swells at the gesture. Finally! He finally approves! Years of disappointment undone with a single nod—it is almost unbelievable.

I am speechless and my eyes water.

My father clear his throat and waves at hand, indicating he wants solitude.

We both begin to turn, but he calls, "Nar—cissa."

I instantly return to his side.

"Anything, father."

Again, he waves his hand.

"Lucius, leave us for a moment."

My fiance scurries from the room, relieved to have been reprieved of such uncomfortable presence. Once he has closed the door, I turn back to my father. For the first time in nearly a decade, he is staring into my eyes, seeing me for me. I can't help but let my tears fall. It burns all the way down my cheek.

"Father."

He lets out a heavy breath, wanting me to stop speaking.

"Malfoys are a good family. French and very slippery, but a good choice."

A good choice, yes, but it hardly feels joyful as I've always envisioned. I can still hear Samson's sandy voice ringing in my head, screaming of my wickedness and betrayal for something as petty as money. But it hadn't been about money at all! Why didn't he understand? I would have been with him in a heartbeat, but love isn't all there is in the world. To be a Black, to be the legacy of blood, is a great burden that can break the back of love. It is the very air and life itself.

And yet there is this void in me, as if I had made the wrong choice. Witches are supposed to be exultant at the thought of their marriage, but I only feel hollow and dispassionate.

My father seems to read my mind and says hoarsely,"You will learn to love him."

"Yes."

He squeezes my hand weakly.

"I shall learn to love him."

My voice is mechanical sounding. I pray to Merlin, to Odin, to God that I have done the right thing, that I grow to love him. I sold my heart for blood in order to fulfill this definition of princess.

I shall love him.

My father is always right.

I shall love him.

FIN.

* * *

><p>Footnotes:<p>

1. Shall and will are basically interchangable for first person, but in second person and some cases, shall is a command. So for Narcissa to use the word despite her father not using it is an indication that she intends to force herself.

2. After many questions about the chapter titles, all is revealed. The minerals mentioned are all forks along the path of the organic (carbon) becoming the immortal (diamond). Each rock has physical properties that link up with the story. We begin with the dark (Black) and move towards light (Malfoy). Carbonado, a coal diamond, is when she feels most true to herself, but things collapse in Graphite, which is grey, easily broken, and slippery. Then we inch, lighter and lighter, toward diamond, representing marriage and her future in another's house.

3. Thanks to you all for following! I'm surprised at how this started out as a simple one-shot character sketch and evolved into so much more. Visit **seinde[dot]tumblr[dot]com** for explanations, extras, and upcoming projects!


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